CROSSES OF WAR 

POEMS BY 

A'AKY RAYMOND SHIPMAN ANDREWS 




Class, " ?^ dS^ L 
Book. J\L£i B C ? ■ 



cjoexright DEPOsm 



BOOKS BY MARY R. S. ANDREWS 

Published bt CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

The Eternal Feminine. Illustrated net $1.50 

August First net $1.00 

The Eternal Masculine. Illustrated. 

net $1.50 

The Militants. Illustrated". . . net $1.50 

Bob and the Guides. Illustrated net $1.50 

Crosses of War net .75 

Her Country net .50 

Old Glory net .50 

The Counsel Assigned net .50 

The Courage of the Commonplace net .50 

The Lifted Bandage net .50 

The Perfect Tribute net .50 



CROSSES OF WAR 




Somewhere in France 



[Page 13] 



CROSSES OF WAR 



BY 
Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews 

Author of " The Perfect Tribute," " Her Country," etc. 




NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

1918 






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COPTEIGHT, 1917, 1918, BY 

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 



Published October, 1918 



Copyright, 1917, by THE NEW YORK TIMES 

COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE CO. 

COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING CO. 




OCT 30 1918 

© CI. A 5 6 8 9 5 



'VvO 



I 



THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED 

TO 

MY GENTLEST READER 

MARCIA SHANKLAND ANDREWS 



CONTENTS 



BAM 



A Godspeed 3 

Vigil 4 

A Call to Akms 5 

Flower of the Land 8 

The Baby and the Baby 10 

Playmates 16 

Camping 17 

America Victorious . 19 

The Boy in France 21 



CROSSES OF WAR 



A GODSPEED 

God speed Old Glory when she takes the road to France ! 

Through the thundering of the legions where the bugles 
play advance 

God speak: "The fight is mine. Carry you my con- 
quering lance." 

God speed Old Glory on! 

God send Old Glory first and foremost in the fight! 
Fling her far, O God of battles, in the van, for the right. 
Lift our hearts up to our freedom's flag of red-and-blue- 
and-white. 

God fling Old Glory far ! 

God guard Old Glory clean through battle grime and 

sweat ! 
Consecrate the men who serve her so that none may 

e'er forget 
How the honor of the colors lies within his keeping yet. 
God guard Old Glory clean! 

God bring Old Glory home in honor, might, and pride ! 
Battle-black and bullet-slashed and stripes streaming 

wide. 
Gorgeous with the memories of men who greatly died — 
God bring Old Glory home! 



THE VIGIL 

Like some young squire who watched his armor bright. 
Kneeling upon the chapel floor all night — 
Where glimmering candles on the altar glowed. 
And moonlight through the Gothic windows flowed — 
And prayed, with folded hands, that God would bless 
His sword, and keep him true, and give success — 
So, kneeling, Lord, before Thine altar light 
A nation asks for help before the fight. 

Grant us the prayer of that boy knight of old — 
Strength to be steadfast, courage to be bold. 
Such passionate love for the dear flag we fly 
That each who serves it holds its honor high — 
Simple, large gifts that soldiers need, O, Lord, 
Grant the young nation for its unsheathed sword; 
And for our captains in the perilous way 
A vision widened to an unknown day. 

We keep our vigil; send to-morrow glorious; 
Let not the world go down; bring right victorious. 
Kneeling in prayer before Thine altar light 
The nation asks Thy help to fight Thy fight. 



4 



A CALL TO ARMS 

/» memory of Captain Philip Killburn Lighthall, who offered to his country, on 
the deck of the " Tuscania," " the last full measure of devotion." 

It is I, America, calling ! 

Above the sound of rivers falling. 

Above the whir of the wheels and the chime of bells in 

the steeple 
— Wheels, rolling gold into the palms of the people. 
Bells ringing silverly clear and slow 
To church-going, leisurely steps on pavements below — 
Above all familiar sounds of the life of a nation 
I shout to you a name. 
And the fliame of that name is sped 
Like fire into hearts where blood runs red — 
The hearts of the land burn hot to the land's salvation 
As I call across the long mUes, as I, America, call to 

my nation 
Tuscania! Tuscania! 
Americans, remember the Tuscania! 



Shall we not remember how they died 

In their young courage and loyalty and pride. 

Our boys — ^bright-eyed, clean lads of America's breed, 

Hearts of gold, limbs of steel, flower of the nation indeed ? 

How they tossed their years to be 

Into icy waters of a winter sea 

That we whom they loved — ^that the world which they 

loved should be free? 
Ready, ungrudging they went, each one thinking, likely, 

as the moment was come 
Of the dear, starry flag, worth dying for, and then of 

dear faces at home; 
Going down in good order, with a song on their lips of 

the land of the free and the brave 
Till each young, deep voice stopped, under the rush of 

a wave. 
Was it like that? And shall their memory ever grow 

pale ? 
Not ever, till the stars in the flag of America fail. 
It is I, America, who swear it, calling 
Over the sound of that deep ocean's falling, 
Tuscania! Tuscania! 
Arm, arm, Americans! Remember the Tuscania! 



6 



Very peacefully they are sleeping 

In friendly earth, unmindful of a nation's weeping. 

And the kindly, strange folk have honored the long, full 

graves, we know; 
And the mothers know that their boys are safe, now, from 

the hurts of a savage foe; 
It is for us who are left to make sure and plain 
That these dead shall not have died in vain; 
So that I, America, young and strong and not afraid, 
I set my face across that sea which swallowed the bodies 

of the sons I made, 
I set my eyes on the still faces of boys washed up on a 

distant shore 
And I call with a shout to my own to end this horror 

forevermore ! 
In the boys' names I call a name. 
And the nation leaps to fire in its flame 
And my sons and my daughters crowd, eager to end the 

shame — 
It is I, America, calling. 
Hoarse with the roar of that ocean falling, 
Tuscania! Tuscania! 
Arm, arm, Americans! And remember, remember the 

Tuscania! 



FLOWER OF THE LAND 

The land is like a garden with a blossoming of boys. 

All across a continent, from the wide Atlantic's boom- 
ing, 

To the hoarse Pacific breakers, shouting deep trium- 
phant noise; 

All across a thousand prairies; from the Rocky Moun- 
tains* looming; 

From the farms and from the cities, out of villages like 
toys 

Pour the boys! 

Everywhere — oh, my country, everywhere 

The flower of America has sprung to sudden blooming. 

Steady flowing, never-ending, never heeding rank or 

races. 
Eager faces set and sober, toward the cloud of battle 

lowering — 
Hear the swinging of battalions, see the young, unfear- 

ing faces. 
Thousands upon crowding thousands, iron muscles, 

steady faces, 



8 



Out of snows and out of bayous, out of fields and cities 
towering. 

Rich and poor, from lordly mansions, out of tiny homes 
like toys 

Stream the boys ! 

Everywhere — oh, my country, everywhere 

The harvest of the land we love has ripened to its flower- 
ing. 

For the God of Hosts has lifted up our soul to be a na- 
tion; 

He has silenced them who doubted that we knew his 
trumpet voice; 

He has set us on a mountain top to suffer for salvation. 

Has crowned us and has cleaned us with suffering and 
salvation. 

And — to answer if our hearts are fixed on riches and on 
toys- 
Lord, the boys! 

Not for gain — God Almighty, not for gaining 

We are offering our flowering for a bulwark to crea- 
tion — 

Lord — our boys! 



9 



THE BABY AND THE BABY 



SOMEWHERE IN AMERICA 

I AM The Baby. 

I own this room and everything that's in sight. 

I own the pink blankets and all the pillows and this brass 

crib that's so shiny and bright. 
I'd like to suck the crib, but I can't, because it doesn't 

come close to my mouth 
Like bottles and woolly blankets; anyhow it's mine, 

east to west and north to south. 
That couple of old persons around twenty who refer to 

themselves as "father" and "mother" — 
They're mine, too, and when I'm engaged with impor- 
tant thoughts they're a bother. 
Yet there's a dreamy satisfaction in owning them, and 

in seeing them make fools of themselves to amuse me. 
The Person in Skirts assures me often that nobody shall 

abuse me 
Because I'm her owny-wowny lamby-petty — I wonder 

why she thinks that sort of asininity 
Is appropriate to me, fresh from the stars and the whirl 

of infinity? 



10 



I fix her with a cold stare, but she only says: "Look, 

Teddy ! 
He acts as if he knew us, and owned us, and scorned us 

already ! " 
Yet I'm getting used to their queer games, and they be- 
gin to appeal to me. 
It seems it's they who soak me in pink blankets and 

adoration and every day deal to me 
Through my nurse and my minions in general the sundry 

warm bottles and such 
Which are the real facts of the universe and please me 

very much. 
The Person in Trousers — one day he was left alone with 

me 
And I stared up and he stared down, frowning hard, as if 

he'd pick a bone with me. 
So after a while I remarked: "Bh!" and he laughed, 

and he said: "You little cuss. 
Suppose we seize this chance for an interview, just us." 
And he bent over my crib and to my astonishment lifted 

me. 
Though I knew that, after he'd once gripped, not for 

worlds would he have shifted me. 
But he got me up safe in his huge claws, and held me, 

and, you know, it was nice. 
Though his hands were so gentle and terrified, they were 

comfy, and strong as a vise; 



XI 



Then he looked at me, very much as the Person in Skirts 

looks, which I didn't know he knew how. 
And he whispered straight at me: "Little cuss, there's 

going to be one horrid big row 
If you don't get all that's coming to you, love and care 

and food and chances. 
If you don't, it's your father will know the reason why, 

and such are the circumstances." 
Then he laid me down, as if I were trinitrotoluol at least. 
And I googled up at him, and laughed, much like a fish 

at a feast. 
And since then I like him to come, and to touch me, 

and I rather 
Am inclined to consider it's a good asset to have a 

father. 
Anyhow he's mine. And the Person in Skirts, which 

is perhaps the best thing I own, she's mine, too. 
And the nurse, and the half nurse, and the nursery and 

— ^you see that blue silk shoe.'^ 
I just kicked it off — that's mine; I'd so like it to chew. 
And all these woolly and silk things lying around, 
I own them and everything — the Person in Skirts said 

so — all the house down to the ground. 
I'm fat and rosy and stuffed and pampered and happy, 

and maybe 
There's anything you can think of better to be than 

an American baby. 



n 



n 

SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE 

I am The Baby. 

The Person in Skirts that I own says it that way when 

she comes home at night; 
She says it in French, and hugs me, and then for a min- 
ute I'm warm, and things seem right. 
And I gurgle and goo at her, but soon I begin to whimper 

a scrap. 
For I've been cold and lonely and hungry all day, and 

I want to tell her about it, as I lie in her lap. 
And she understands, for she rubs me nicely awhile, and 

holds me close. 
And then she puts me down and fusses about and cooks 

me the nastiest dose! 
Now what do you think ? Instead of a warm bottle of 

milk, white and delicious, 
She boils grass and such stuff — ^yes, she does — in water, 

and I hear her whispering; "It isn't nutritious." 
And she feeds it to me, and I hate it, and howl and kick 

and squeal. 
And then she cries into it, and I get tired — ^for it doesn't 

give a fellow strength, that meal. 



IS 



I get so tired I can't howl or kick any more, and so I 

lie still. 
And make a small whimpering noise, and try to beg 

with my eyes to be fed my fill — 
Which is what a baby's entitled to, else why did he 

have to come? 
Heaven knows I didn't ask to start living in this land 

of gun and drum. 
So the Person in Skirts — she says she's my mother, and 

she's thin and sad and white — 
She puts me to bed and lies down beside me, but neither 

of us sleeps much all night. ■■ 

Next morning she kisses me, and wraps me in a shawl, 

and steals out of the door and away. 
And then I'm alone, and vaguely scared, and it seems 

like a week long, all day. 
Maybe two or three times a kind person comes in and 

takes me up and comforts me and then tries to 

cram down me 
That nasty grass tea, till I wish I were an extra puppy 

and they'd drown me. 
I really can't drink that stuff. And the only reason I 

keep on going. 
Which I sometimes think is a mistake in a country 

where grass tea is growing. 



14 



Is because I'm glad, nights, when the Person in Skirts 

comes back, 
And also because, once in a blue moon, there's a large, 

deep-voiced Person in Black 
Called the Cure, who brings me real milk — ^just a little, 

but oh, isn't it fine! 
And when I see it coming, warm and white, I'm in such 

a hurry that I whimper and whine 
For pure joy, and the Cure smiles a bit, watching me, and 

says I'm the hope of France; 
But how can a chap be the hope of France when he can't 

get enough food to have a chance? 
And the Person in Skirts whispers things about my 

father, whom she calls her lost hero so sadly — 
Somehow I've gathered that a father's a thing that gives 

babies what they need badly. 
I wish I had a father. If I couldn't have that, then I 

wish some other babies' fathers would give me a 

place to stay — 
A warm, light place, with persons in it while the Person 

in Skirts is gone all day. 
And maybe they'd let me have some food that wasn't as 

bad as grass tea. 
Do you think, if their babies have plenty and some left 

over, the other babies' fathers would do that for me ? 



15 



PLAYMATES 

Time was when you were comrade to the old, 
Friend to the sorrowful, grown tired of breath; 

Now all the buoyant hearts and heads of gold 
Run to your arms, O Death! 

Time was when you could terrify the bold. 

When seasoned warriors shivered at your breath; 

Now boys go singing down into the cold 
Seas where you wait them. Death! 

Time was when loss and grief and dust and mold 
Were all the message of the parting breath; 

Now youth and gladness of the world enrolled 
Laugh through your veil, Death! 

Time was life seemed at end, the story told 

When the dear clay was emptied of dear breath; 

Now sudden vision lights a wisdom old — 
Life but begins with death. 

O grave, how may your ancient victory hold 

These bright, unconquered ones, careless of breath? 

playmate Death, whose hand they rush to fold. 
Where is your sting, O Death! 



16 



CAMPING 

Queer — three old pals like you and Bill and me, 
Who've camped so many summer moons together. 
Should get our camping half the earth apart. 
This August weather. 

Odd — when our tastes are very much alike. 
We've picked such widely different situations 
— ^Though Bill and I have hit the same old trail 
Among the hills which seem like close relations. 

You know the lake, the long, low house of logs; 
To every querying leaf you know the answer 
In light and shadow on these forest walls; 
You — off in France, sir! 

You know the AlUe Verte, the Golden Pool, 
The sunny sand-bar where your moose was standing; 
You know the way the boats lie up the bank 
Under the birch and alders 'round the landing. 

But Bill and I don't even know the town 
Where "A. E. F." means You, across the billow; 
Yet know it's home — because Old Glory waves 
Over your pillow. 



17 



A gray old port that Julius Csesar saw; 
Transports all brown with singing warriors, hailing 
From shores that Caesar never heard of; thus, — 
It's all I know — imagination's failing. 

I picture lines of barracks on a hill— 

Or is it in a valley? Horses tramping, 

Mighty guns rumbling, regiments at drill. 

Hoarse orders shouted — is that like your camping? 

Ours is another sort; the peaceful days. 
The smiling mountains; yet at any minute 
We'd leave this heaven for that hell, to be 
With you, and in it. 

We two can't fight. Though Bill, at fifty odd. 
Hankers to be an Ace, through clouds a-kiting; 
But War Departments scorn the likes of us; 
You'll do our fighting. 

We think it safe with you; we think Fow'll win 
The war, and personally nab the Kaiser; 
Yet — only come back home! We'll never ask 
Medals and honors — ^just your lifted visor. 

But if the Great Adventure calls you, lad. 
Cutting you free of Life's uncertain tether. 
You'll wait a while, beyond, for Bill and me? — 
And then, sometime again, we'll camp together. 

18 



AMERICA VICTORIOUS 

We shall go down at length to the gates of the sea. 
We who have waited and watched and prayed from afar, 
To welcome our fighting-men who have made earth free. 
Our boys, home from the war. 

Crowded the transports there, at the gates of the sea. 
Pouring out rushing figures, khaki-clad. 
Men roving of eye in the search for you and for me. 
Home at last, and very glad. 

The bands shall play in the streets of the gates of the 

sea. 
The crowds shall cheer, and the flags shall paint the sky. 
Wild bells shall peal, to the conquering lines, jubilee — 
But some shall be dim of eye. 

Oh you, standing desolate there at the gates of the sea. 
For a step not heard in the marching ranks, and a face 
Whose eager smile to your face on earth cannot be — 
Oh you, take heart of grace ! 

As his comrades come homeward without him across 

the sea — 
Guard him his glory of gladness in ultimate splendor. 
Render them honor whole-hearted and smiling — as he 
Would have rendered them honor, so render. 



19 



America beloved! Who shall stand one day by the 

sea 
Bright-faced for the sons who come to the meeting 

glorious. 
Wistful-eyed for the voices whose greeting may not 

yet be. 
Rejoice for your shining army forever free, 
America beloved — victorious ! 



20 



THE BOY IN FRANCE 

Steeped in hot haze of the August afternoon 
The garden dreams in a many-splendored trance; 
The locusts drone a long, insistent tune; 
And the boy — the boy's in France. 

Down the stone steps the rose-pink phloxes stand. 
Like delicate sculptures, through the breathless day, 
Brilliant yet shadowy, as the bright, vague land; 
And the boy — ^the boy's away. 

The dogs about the terrace listless lie. 
Waiting a springing step they used to know; 
We wait, we also — and the days crawl by; 
The boy — we miss him so. 



U 



Green fields reach over hills to fields of gold; 
Far off the city glitters, gay but wan; 
The radiant scene breathes loneliness untold; 
The boy — the boy is gone. 

Sudden his service flag's impetuous story 
Flashes a bugle note across the flowers; 
Sudden the aching loss is pride and glory; 
He is in France — he's ours! 

Lad of my heart! From all across your land 
One thought wings to that land of old romance; 
One proud America stretches a loving hand 
To the boy — the boy in France. 



S2 



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